


Uwiecznic

by Camaendir



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Painting, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:34:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27157342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camaendir/pseuds/Camaendir
Summary: Geralt discovers a painting of himself after completing a hunt. A painting of Geralt in the buff. a painting which only one person would even dare to conceive.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 1
Kudos: 82





	Uwiecznic

**Author's Note:**

> Uwiecznic- "Immortalize"
> 
> Sorry about how long it's been since I've posted. All the pandemic stuff has drained my creative process. Luckily, with apple pies and hot cocoas and fireplaces, it seems to be coming back.  
> And for those who are wondering, I am still working on the arranged date fic I posted a few chapters for awhile back. Hopefully I'll be able to post more soon.

The bard was dead.

Surely dead.

For when Geralt found that annoying little man, he would wring his neck until his head popped off.

The songs. The songs were bad enough. Being bellowed out by drunken villagers in the taverns he brooded within after a long hunt was bad, but at least those melodies tended to stay away from the larger towns he’d wander into for especially difficult hunts. The cities where royals would have him listen to their woes about their riches and their abundance in all aspects of life before actually getting to what monster needed slaying.

He was never invited to stay in these luxurious homes and castles after a successful hunt, so he never had to deal with the celebrations or the songs of the local, non-traveling bards. It was a gentle reprise from the drunken off-key singing of elves and hooves and the tossing of coins. 

But now he had to deal with this… issue.

Before him, in the entrance hall of the home of a local affluent, hung many paintings of battles long since past and knights engaged in swordplay and other such objects of conflicts powers. And there was one on his left that made him pause and turn with a rising fury in his blood that mostly drowned out the servant’s explanation on the acquiring of the painting. The words “bard”, “cornflower”, and “talkative” stuck out to him and confirmed his suspicions into the artist behind this work.

His own image hung before him. Draped in flowing brown cloth and leaving little to the imagination, the painted Geralt stood with a rose in one hand and his sword by his side, a griffin dramatically lay slain beneath him. It was definitely painted with some skill, and the thoughts of Jaskier standing for hours on end, in some field painting a nude witcher with that smile on his face only made Geralt’s blood boiler hotter.

“-and didn’t ask for anything in return. Just wanted his work out there, I guess,” she continued, shrinking in on herself when Geralt’s eyes turned to her once again.

“Can you tell me what direction this… artist left?” He tried his damnedest not to growl the question out, but knew he failed when she simply pointed with a shaky arm.

Thanking her before he left, Geralt quickly retrieved Roach and hightailed it out of town, a boiling anger and sense of dread fighting out in the pit of his stomach.

~~

Three more paintings were located by an increasingly infuriated witcher before he found the bard’s current residence. Each discovered rendition was more outlandish and embarrassing than the last. Geralt sensually entwined with a sea serpent, golds and greens clashing. Another defeated griffin, but this oil and ink Geralt was laid across it as if a loveseat. The last, a village away from the confirmed home of the bard, had Geralt with his buns exposed to the viewer, firing an arrow into a swooping beast from the sky. 

With the paintings taking a growing residence in his mind, Geralt comes across Jaskier’s abode. A rather quaint cottage settled further outside the village square than the other homes. It was nestled on the side of a hill with a small stable to the side and a garden on the other. 

Geralt dismounted and tied Roach off to the stable. He rolled his shoulders once as he made his way to the front door. Inhaling deeply, he could pick out the sickly sweet of dying flowers inside the home, but little else. He slammed his fist against the door, feeling the wood shake beneath the pounding. 

Silence.

He inhaled again. Smoke and ash. A fire. Put out no more than six hours ago. He pounded on the door again, his features twisted into a grimace. 

“I know you’re there you, weaselly little-”

“You’re usually not one to insult someone behind their back, witcher,” came from the path to the home.

Geralt turned, and there stood Jaskier, dressed quite plainly with heavy scruff across his jaw and a pouch under one arm. His expression lacked the usual mischievous glee Geralt had come to know. Jaskier brushed past Geralt and opened the wood door, being swallowed by the darkness of the home. A banging of items being put on a table, then shutters being swung open between the door and the stable. 

“Are you coming in or are you going to stand there like an angry stump?”

Geralt growled again and entered the abode. The insides were sparse. A small bookcase. Fireplace and kitchenette. A chair with worn fabric before the fire and a small table behind, currently covered in rolled canvasses and various bottles of colored oils. A closed door led to what had to be the bedroom.

Jaskier squatted in front of the fireplace, rearranging the logs inside and trying to get it started. “So, what did you come here for? Or did you just happen to be passing by?”

“No, I came for… That! That right there!” Geralt stomped over to the back of the room, 

Stretched over a canvas was a mostly finished painting. Just like the others. Geralt, arm raised aloft with sword in hand, riding a rearing marble horse, just as bare as the other paintings.

He looked back at Jaskier, who was still trying to get a fire started. “I knew you were the one behind these!”

The fire roared to life, and Jaskier brushed the soot from his hands, turning as he stood. He looked at the painting, and finally smiled. It was small, but it was a smile.

“Ah, I’m actually quite proud of this one. Not sure if it’s worth giving up. Was actually out getting more paints when you arrived.” He leaned against his chair and crossed his arms. “So, what do you think? Three words or less.”

“No. More. Paintings.” Geralt’s fist tightened at his side, the leather of his glove squeaking loudly. 

“…No.” The smile widened but didn’t quite meet the younger man’s eyes. 

“Why?” Geralt sucked in a breath. “Why me? Why so many? Why…” He waved a hand toward the painting. “Why like that?”

Jaskier huffed out a laugh. “If you don’t understand enough that you have to ask, then you won’t understand the answer.”

Geralt strode forward and grabbed Jaskier by the shoulder. He pivoted him around and shoved him into the chair, where he landed with a soft “oof”. Hands on the chair’s arms, Geralt leaned over Jaskier. “Then make me understand.”

And Jaskier did just that.

He reached up, hands gliding through silver waves, and pulled himself up until lips met lips. It was short. It was soft. And it was sweet. It ended as quickly as it started, with Jaskier curling in on himself, his cheeks rosy.

“,,,That doesn’t answer my question.”

Jaskier’s head shot up, and he let out a nervous laugh. “Seriously? That’s the first thing you say? You really are the biggest asshole on the Continent.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes at the bard.

“Fine,” he sighed, letting a hand ghost over the leather glove still gripping the chair arm. “I couldn’t pick up the lute without singing about you, after… you know. Every song I started ended with your hair or your eyes or what I lost up there.” He shrunk into the chair even more. “I thought maybe if I tried something new, I’d be distracted enough to put you in the back of my mind, but I couldn’t. You were always there. You’ve taken up residence behind my eyes and I can’t get you to leave.”

“So,” Geralt breathed out, slowly lowering himself to sit next to Jaskier, a hand on his forearm. “You’ve been spending all this time just painting me, and what? Handing them out to anyone who passes by?”

“No! The first one was an accident. I was working on an estate painting for a local lord and he happened to see one of the paintings of you. He wanted it badly. And paid handsomely for it. That’s how I got this little cottage here.” Jaskier moved his arm away from Geralt’s grasp. It didn’t help much, as they were squashed together in the chair. “I thought maybe I’d hand some out, a new version of my songs. Maybe people would recognize you, maybe not. But I hoped seeing you as some mythical hero would help sway some opinions about you.”

A gentle laugh escaped Geralt. “Is that how you see me? Some mythical hero?”

Jaskier smiled. “Not quite. But something equally unobtainable. Never to truly have you to myself.”

“…I’m sorry for what I said, on the mountain. You didn’t deserve any of that.”

“You’re damned right I didn’t.”

“I honestly thought you’d shake it off like you had everything else. I’ve heard much worse spat at you.”

“A harsh word from someone you love cuts deeper than death threats from strangers.” 

“How can I make it up to you?” 

“Pose for one of my paintings?” Jaskier asked, a touch of hope floating around his voice.

“I’ll consider it. Anything else in the meantime?”

“Stay tonight? Tell me a tale about you? And tell it how I would tell it, not how you would grumble it out in four words.”

Geralt shifted in the chair and his hand was drawn to Jaskier’s thigh. It squeezed the soft muscle underneath.

“Sure. How about my battle against a nest of vampires. Ten of them. Brutal. Quick. And hungry.”

The tale continued late into the night, and the pair, still squeezed together in the chair, were comfortable.

~~

Geralt returned to the cottage a month later, with vials of silver and black paints in one hand, and new flowers in the other.


End file.
